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The bar is too loud, too sticky, and too teeming with the banal stink of human desperation for Wednesday Addams to be seen here willingly. Which is precisely why Enid has her by the wrist, dragging her through the crowded mess of neon lights and bad decisions, declaring loudly that this is exactly what Wednesday needs. Wednesday, to her credit, has not bitten her roommate-turned-best-friend yet… but it is close (very close).
Enid insists on getting tequila shots (because it’s the fastest way to drown the taste of betrayal) and Wednesday, who would rather drink rat poison than anything ‘fun’ finds herself staring at the pale gold liquid as though it personally wronged her. Tyler Galpin’s face swims unbidden into her mind (the smarmy smile, pathetic eyes, and now, apparently, Laurel Gates’ lipstick on his collar).
She tips the shot back without grimacing, which Enid declares ‘super hardcore.’ Wednesday only tastes the faint burn and the bitterness of her own fury. “This is a waste of time,” she mutters, voice low but sharp as she watches Enid wriggle onto a barstool. “I could be plotting his untimely demise instead of marinating in sweat and noise.”
Enid grins, slamming her empty glass down in triumph before waving the bartender over again. “Exactly! And what did I say? The best way to get over an ex is…” “Don’t say it.” “…to get under someone new,” Enid sing-songs, winking, clearly enjoying how Wednesday’s glare could cut steel.
“I will carve that phrase into your gravestone one day,” Wednesday informs her flatly, only to find the bartender sliding another shot in front of her (Enid, traitorous, already has one in hand). The second burns hotter than the first. The third, somehow, goes down without any burn at all and by the fourth, Wednesday’s razor-sharp disdain begins to blur at the edges, softening into something dangerous. She’s not drunk, she would never allow that kind of vulnerability. No, she is simply… loose, that’s all.
Loose enough that when Enid points out a man attempting to dance nearby with all the grace of a dying ostrich, Wednesday actually smirks. Loose enough that her fingers twitch toward her phone in her pocket, restless. Enid notices instantly, leaning forward with that irritatingly bright grin. “Ooooh, who are you texting?”
“No one,” Wednesday answers, but her thumb is already hovering over Xavier Thorpe’s contact. Xavier, the infuriatingly smug coworker whose flirtations have always ricocheted off her like poorly aimed darts. He is insufferable but he is also, Wednesday begrudgingly admits to herself after too much tequila, safe and familiar (an acceptable outlet).
She types with brisk efficiency, though her vision swims faintly as the neon lights strobe overhead. “I require a body immediately. Preferably yours, bring handcuffs.” Her finger jabs send before she can reconsider. The satisfaction of watching the message fly off is almost enough to soothe her bruised pride (almost). It takes approximately thirty seconds for regret to set in.
“Who did you just sext at three a.m.?” Enid’s gasp is scandalized enough to make heads turn. “Please tell me it wasn’t Xavier, please…” Wednesday’s phone buzzes. She glances down, expecting Xavier’s usual cocky retort. Instead, the name on the screen stills her heart (Principal Weems).
The message is mercifully short, but every letter radiates chill authority. “Miss Addams may I suggest you review the recipient before you press send in the future.” Wednesday’s stomach lurches harder than any tequila shot could.
Enid, peering over her shoulder, squeals so loudly that the bartender drops a glass. “OH. MY. GOD. You sexted Weems?!” Wednesday slams her phone face-down on the bar as if that could undo the last sixty seconds of existence. “I am never drinking again,” she mutters, but Enid is already laughing so hard she’s nearly falling off her stool.
Wednesday wakes the next morning with a skull-splitting headache that feels like someone has set up a marching band inside her brain. The ceiling of her dorm is too bright, the sheets too constricting, and Enid’s obnoxiously chipper humming from the bathroom enough to drive her to homicide.
She lies still for several seconds, willing the memory of last night to be nothing more than a hallucination (a tequila-soaked fever dream). Surely she had not, in fact, propositioned her employer with handcuffs, surely not. Then her phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lights up, and there it is. “Miss Addams. Report to my office at nine sharp.” Her soul leaves her body.
By the time she drags herself to Principal Weems’ office, Wednesday is armed with a black coffee, a pair of sunglasses large enough to cover her disdain, and the unwavering determination to act as though none of it happened (if she pretends hard enough, perhaps reality itself will bend to her will).
The office door looms like a guillotine blade. She knocks once, curt, and steps inside. Larissa Weems looks unfairly immaculate for a Monday morning. Not a single strand of silver-blonde hair is out of place and her suit is tailored to lethal perfection, the kind of cut that suggests she could both run a school and a small dictatorship. The curve of her lips holds the faintest suggestion of amusement, which is somehow worse than fury. “Miss Addams,” Weems greets, her voice silk stretched over steel, “do sit down.”
Wednesday does, spine straight, face composed. The sunglasses remain firmly on and she clutches her coffee like a weapon. “I trust you recall last night’s… message?” Weems continues, folding her hands neatly on the desk. Her tone is too even, too polite, the kind of composure that makes Wednesday’s stomach twist.
“I do not,” Wednesday says evenly, sipping her coffee as though it can shield her. “I was inebriated.” A faint arch of one sculpted brow. “Yes, I gathered.” Wednesday shifts, fingers tightening around her cup. “It was not intended for you.”
“So I assumed.” Weems’ eyes flicker with something sharp, something amused. “Although I must admit, the wording was… memorable.” The silence that follows stretches, heavy and deliberate (Wednesday refuses to squirm, she will not give Larissa Weems the satisfaction of seeing her flustered).
And yet her mind insists on replaying the text in vivid detail (“I require a body immediately. Preferably yours, bring handcuffs.”) until the words throb like neon across her skull. Weems tilts her head slightly, as though studying a particularly curious specimen. “I’m tempted to ask what exactly you were hoping to accomplish at three in the morning with such a request.” Wednesday swallows, eyes narrowing. “That is none of your concern, Principal Weems.”
“Oh, but it is,” Weems counters smoothly, her voice dipping lower. “When my staff begin sending their principal indecent propositions, I find myself rather concerned indeed.” Heat crawls up Wednesday’s neck (fury, she tells herself, not humiliation). She sets her coffee down with deliberate precision, meeting Weems’ gaze with unflinching darkness. “Then allow me to clarify. I do not seduce authority figures, it was a mistake.”
Weems leans back in her chair, crossing one elegant leg over the other. The movement is fluid, calculated, designed to unnerve. “How reassuring,” she murmurs, though her smile suggests anything but. The tension between them stretches taut, humming with unspoken words. Wednesday tells herself she is imagining the way Weems’ eyes linger just a fraction too long, the way her lips curve as though suppressing laughter… it is intolerable.
Finally, Weems breaks the silence. “Very well. I will consider the matter closed. Do try, in the future, to ensure your late-night… urges… are directed appropriately.” Wednesday stands swiftly, gathering what remains of her dignity. “You will never hear of such urges from me again.”
“Pity,” Weems says lightly, almost idly, though the word lands with surgical precision. Wednesday freezes mid-step, heart lurching before she can smother it. She forces her expression into ice, refusing to react, and leaves the office without another word. Behind her, Weems’ low laugh curls through the air, sharp as a knife.
By the time Wednesday leaves Weems’ office, her headache has dulled to a persistent throb and she tells herself it’s fine (she has survived worse)… decapitation would have been preferable, but one does not always get to choose their fate. Enid is waiting outside the staff wing like an overeager golden retriever, practically bouncing on her heels. The moment she sees Wednesday, she pounces. “Sooo? How bad was it?”
Wednesday levels her with a stare sharp enough to fell a grown man. “Imagine being publicly hanged and then shot for good measure, that would have been preferable.” Enid claps her hands together like Wednesday just announced she won the lottery. “That’s not bad at all! Did she yell? Did she blush? Oh my god, did she say anything flirty?”
“She said it was a pity,” Wednesday deadpans and Enid squeals loud enough to draw the attention of passing students. “PITY?! As in it’s a pity you won’t text her sexy things again?! Wednesday, that’s practically flirting!” Wednesday turns on her heel and stalks toward her classroom, muttering darkly about arsenic doses (Enid trails after her undeterred, like a rainbow-colored shadow).
For the rest of the day, the problem gnaws at Wednesday. She tells herself the problem is Enid and her incessant commentary. She also tells herself the problem is Xavier, who corners her in the break room with a lazy grin and a “So, heard you drunk-texted the boss?” Wednesday almost hits him with the coffee pot (but the true problem, the one she refuses to acknowledge, is Larissa Weems herself).
The principal seems determined to haunt every corner of her day: appearing in the hall just as Wednesday rounds it, pausing at her classroom door with a polite inquiry that stretches a moment too long, brushing past her in the staff lounge with a smile that curls like smoke… it is infuriating. Worse still, Wednesday begins to notice things she has no business noticing (the sharp click of Weems’ heels echoing down polished floors, the crisp scent of her perfume, the way her voice dips when she leans close to address a student).
Wednesday catches herself staring once, pen frozen mid-sentence. She slams her notebook shut so hard that the student at the front row jumps. She is not attracted to Larissa Weems. That would be absurd, that would be reckless, that would be…
Enid bursts into the staff room later, shoving a smoothie into Wednesday’s hand with a grin that should be criminal. “You’re totally obsessed with her.” “I am not.” Wednesday peels the straw wrapper with surgical precision.
“Yes, you are.” Enid flops into the chair across from her, chin propped on her hand. “You’ve got that whole brooding, tortured, can’t-admit-my-feelings thing going on. It’s very on brand for you honestly.” Wednesday takes a long, deliberate sip of the smoothie. “If I ever confess feelings for an authority figure, please push me into the nearest woodchipper.”
Enid beams. “That’s basically a love declaration in Addams-speak.” Before Wednesday can retort, the staff room door swings open and Larissa Weems steps inside (radiant as ever) speaking to another teacher in low, measured tones. The air seems to sharpen, every molecule rearranging itself around her presence.
Enid smirks like the devil himself as she leans forward, whispering loudly enough that Wednesday wants to strangle her. “Woodchipper.” Wednesday stabs her straw straight through the smoothie lid with such force that it splatters purple across the table.
Weems glances over at the sound, arching a brow. Her lips twitch, not quite a smile, but perilously close. “Miss Addams, do try not to murder the furniture,” she says smoothly before gliding out of the room again, leaving the faint scent of her perfume in her wake. Enid sighs like she’s watching a romance movie as Wednesday plots her untimely demise.
But even as she sharpens her pen into a makeshift weapon later that night, the echo of Weems’ voice lingers in her mind… smooth, amused, deliberate (“Do try not to murder the furniture.”) And Wednesday, for the first time in her life, cannot quite decide if she wants to kill someone… or kiss them.
Wednesday wakes the next morning with the distinct sensation of being hunted. Not by mortal enemies or supernatural beasts, but by her so-called friends. Enid hovers the entire day like a neon vulture, eyes sparkling with gossip and Xavier, apparently tipped off by Enid, contributes with smirking commentary every time he passes her in the hallway. “So,” Xavier drawls as they cross paths near the library, sketchbook tucked under his arm, “is Weems more of a silk-scarf type or leather-whip type?”
Wednesday doesn’t even break stride. “I will set you on fire.” He grins like a man who enjoys pain. Enid, on the other hand, takes the subtler approach (if by subtle one means leaving heart-shaped sticky notes on Wednesday’s desk that say things like ‘Principal Weems Crush Club’). Wednesday crumples each one methodically and places them in her ‘Reasons Enid Must Die’ jar… the jar fills quickly.
The problem, however, is not Enid or Xavier, not even the relentless memory of the text that will undoubtedly haunt her until death… the problem is Weems. Every interaction since that morning feels sharpened, edged with something unspoken. Wednesday delivers a stack of reports to Weems’ desk, and the principal thanks her with a smile that lingers a shade too long. She corrects Wednesday’s phrasing in a meeting, her voice sliding lower, smoother, until it brushes down Wednesday’s spine. Passing her in the hallway, she lays a hand lightly against Wednesday’s arm to steer her aside, and the heat of it sears through wool and bone.
And it only gets worse in her office the following week. Wednesday has been summoned (this time for an entirely legitimate reason). A report is late, and Weems insists on a discussion. The late afternoon light slants through tall windows, painting everything in shades of gold. Weems sits behind her desk like a queen on her throne, immaculate.
“Miss Addams,” she says, folding her hands. “I’ve noticed a troubling lapse in your punctuality. That is unlike you.” Wednesday sits opposite, hands folded just as tightly, chin lifted. “I was preoccupied.” “With?” Weems’ tone is deceptively mild.
Wednesday considers lying (she doesn’t). “Eliminating distractions.” Weems hums, the sound curling low in her throat. “Mm, and how is that endeavor progressing?” Wednesday narrows her eyes. “Poorly.” The faintest smile ghosts across Weems’ lips, not mocking but knowing. “I suspected as much.”
The silence stretches, heavy and Wednesday’s pulse pounds in her ears. She refuses to fidget, refuses to give away the war raging beneath her calm facade. Weems leans back, crossing one elegant leg over the other, her heel dangling precariously from a foot that seems designed to torment. “Do you know what I find most fascinating about you, Miss Addams?” she asks softly, eyes never leaving Wednesday’s. Wednesday’s voice is a blade’s edge. “Do enlighten me.”
“That you deny yourself things you clearly want,” Weems says, her tone silk wrapping steel. “As though restraint is always synonymous with strength.” The air between them thickens, hot and crackling, every word soaked in implication. Wednesday’s fingers curl tight against her notebook (she cannot look away).
Finally, she forces her voice out, dry and sharp. “Restraint is the only thing that prevents chaos.” Weems smiles (slow, deliberate, dangerous). “And yet sometimes chaos is precisely what’s needed.”
Wednesday’s breath catches, traitorous, before she buries it under ice. She stands abruptly, notebook in hand. “I will submit the report by tomorrow morning.” Weems inclines her head, composed as ever. “See that you do.”
But as Wednesday turns, she hears the principal murmur just loud enough to carry. “Unless, of course, you find yourself… distracted again.” Wednesday nearly slams the door on her way out.
That night, Enid corners her with popcorn and a smirk. “Sooo, what did she say?” Wednesday considers hurling herself out the window. “Nothing.” Enid beams. “That bad, huh?” Wednesday stares into the middle distance, plotting elaborate ways to poison both her roommate and her principal.
But beneath the irritation, beneath the fury, the echo of Weems’ voice lingers. And Wednesday, despite every denial, cannot stop imagining exactly what kind of chaos Larissa Weems has in mind.
Enid has stays unbearable all week. It’s not the usual brand of unbearable, the colorful sweaters and shrieking playlists and glitter-scented shampoo. No, this is the concentrated, finely honed unbearable of a best friend who smells blood in the water. “Wednesday,” she says one morning, barging into the room without knocking, “I made a playlist for your crush.”
“I do not have a crush,” Wednesday replies flatly, lacing her boots. Enid flops onto the bed, phone already blasting something sickeningly romantic. “It’s called Hot for Teacher.” Wednesday glares at her hard enough to burn holes in flesh. “If you value your life, stop speaking.”
But Enid does not stop (because Enid never stops). Every glance from Weems becomes a wink in her interpretation, every polite word spun into innuendo… by Thursday, she has graduated from commentary to active interference, dropping “accidental” hints in staff meetings and asking loudly whether Wednesday prefers blondes.
Finally, Friday night arrives. Wednesday is sharpening her fencing blade when Enid storms in, hands on hips. “Okay, this is ridiculous. You’re obsessed with her, and instead of just admitting it, you’re moping around like some Victorian widow, it’s exhausting.” Wednesday lifts her gaze, slow and cold. “Obsessed?”
“Yes!” Enid throws her hands up. “You’re brooding harder than usual, don’t even try to deny it because you literally broke a pencil yesterday when she walked by.”
“I was frustrated,” Wednesday counters. “You were horny,” Enid snaps back, cheeks pink but eyes blazing. “And instead of doing anything about it, you’re making me suffer through your repression!” Wednesday rises (blade still in hand) her voice drops to a deadly quiet. “Do not presume to know the contents of my mind, Enid Sinclair.”
For a moment, silence falls heavy between them, Enid however, has never feared sharp edges. She softens only slightly, eyes pleading beneath the stubborn fire. “I just… I don’t want you to miss something good because you’re too scared to let yourself want it.” The words wedge themselves into Wednesday’s chest, irritatingly difficult to dislodge. She scowls, turns on her heel, and leaves without a word.
••••••••••••••••••••
The bar is just as loud and sticky as last time but Wednesday does not care. The tequila burns sharper this time, anger still hot in her veins. She tells herself she came here to drown the taste of Enid’s meddling, not to relive the humiliation of last week… then she sees her.
Larissa Weems sits at the far end of the bar, posture regal even on a rickety stool, a martini glass poised elegantly between her fingers. She looks out of place and yet perfectly at home, pale hair gleaming beneath neon light, lips painted red. Of all the gin-soaked dives in the city, of course she would walk into this one.
Weems notices her almost instantly. That cool, assessing gaze sweeps across the room, catches on Wednesday, and lingers. A smile curves slow and knowing as she lifts her glass in a subtle salute. Wednesday considers leaving (that would be wise, logical… safe).
Instead, she orders another tequila shot and takes the stool two seats down. For several minutes, silence reigns. The hum of the bar presses around them, but between them hangs something sharper, heavier. Finally, Weems speaks, her voice velvet even over the thrum of bad music. “I didn’t expect to meet you here, Miss Addams.”
Wednesday sets her empty glass down with a sharp click. “I didn’t expect to see you here either.” Weems tilts her head, studying her with that same maddening composure. “And yet here we both are, strange how that happens.” Wednesday narrows her eyes. “If you’ve come to deliver another lecture, I assure you, I’m not in the mood.”
A faint chuckle, low and amused escapes Weems’ lips. “On the contrary, I think you’re in exactly the mood for trouble.” The words coil between them, soft and sharp all at once. Wednesday feels her pulse quicken (not with fear, never with fear, but something equally dangerous). She turns toward Weems fully now, black eyes gleaming under neon light. “You assume much.”
Weems swirls the liquid in her glass, gaze never wavering. “Not nearly as much as you’d like to believe.” The bartender slides another tequila shot toward Wednesday without asking. She takes it without breaking eye contact with Larissa Weems, lets the burn scorch a path down her throat and sets the glass down hard enough that it cracks faintly against the counter.
Weems arches a brow, her martini glass poised delicately between fingers tipped in pale polish. “Careful,” she murmurs, voice smooth as satin. “You might send me another… misdirected message if you keep drinking like that.” Wednesday’s lips curl into something that is not quite a smile. “I assure you, if I intended to proposition you again, I would do it sober. And I would succeed.”
The words hang between them, heavier than the smoke curling in the air. Weems’ gaze sharpens, pale blue catching neon pink and green until her eyes glow like cut glass. She leans in, closing the space just enough that the scent of her perfume brushes Wednesday’s senses (crisp, cold, and edged with roses).
“That was bold,” she says softly, almost like a challenge. “But are you always so certain of victory, Miss Addams?” Wednesday meets her stare, unflinching. “Always.”
Weems laughs low, velvet-dark, the sound sliding under Wednesday’s skin like a blade. She tips her head back slightly, exposing the elegant line of her throat, then sets her glass down with slow precision. “You’re intoxicating when you’re arrogant.”
Wednesday feels the words like claws, dragging across nerve and bone. She shifts on the barstool, refusing to yield, but her pulse betrays her (sharp and fast, echoing in her ears). “And you,” she replies, voice tight as piano wire, “are insufferable when you’re amused.”
Weems’ smile sharpens. She leans closer still, the air between them charged, her voice dropping low enough that it skims just above the music. “Then it’s fortunate that I rarely amuse myself with anyone else.” It’s too close… too hot, Wednesday grips the bar top, nails biting wood, and forces her tone to remain steady. “You are my superior. This is inappropriate.”
“Mm,” Weems hums, her lips curling as she draws back just an inch, enough to make the absence ache. “And yet you haven’t moved away.” Wednesday hates the flush crawling up her throat, hates how right the woman is, hates more than anything the fact that she wants her closer.
The bartender returns, sliding a fresh drink toward Weems. She thanks him without looking, then turns her attention back to Wednesday, sipping slow. The martini glass touches her lips with obscene elegance. “Tell me,” Weems says finally, setting the glass down, “was it really Xavier you meant to text that night?”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow. “Of course.” Weems tilts her head, studying her like a specimen under glass. “And yet I can’t help but think it wasn’t his name you wanted to type.”
The words crack through Wednesday’s composure like lightning. She inhales sharply, fists clenching against the bar, and for one perilous second she nearly admits it nearly confesses that the thought of Weems’ name glowing on her phone screen had burned her hotter than any liquor. Instead, she says coldly, “You think highly of yourself.”
Weems leans in, smile slow and devastating. “I’ve been told.” Wednesday tells herself she is fine (she is not fine). Every nerve in her body is wired to the woman sitting beside her, every flick of Weems’ wrist and curve of her smile pulled into sharp, unbearable focus. The rest of the bar blurs, noise collapsing into static. The tequila in her veins hums low and dangerous, loosening chains she has held tight for years.
Weems leans close again, speaking in that velvet-smooth voice that slides straight under skin. “Tell me, Miss Addams, what exactly would you have done if I had been the intended recipient of your text?” The air thickens. Wednesday grips her glass, eyes dark and steady, even as heat creeps through her chest. “I would have followed through.”
For once, Weems falters. Only for a heartbeat (a flicker in those glacier-blue eyes, a pause too long before the curve of her mouth sharpens into something wicked). “How very… decisive.” She lets the word linger like a fingertip along Wednesday’s jaw. Wednesday swallows hard, hating how dry her throat feels. “I don’t hesitate.”
“No,” Weems agrees softly, leaning closer until her perfume is dizzying. “But sometimes you… deny yourself.” The words are a knife slid into Wednesday’s ribs. Her pulse stutters, fury and want tangled so tightly she can’t untangle them. She opens her mouth to deliver something cutting, something cruel.., And then Weems rises, smooth and deliberate, gathering her clutch. She leans down, lips brushing dangerously close to Wednesday’s ear as she whispers, “Excuse me.”
She sweeps away toward the back of the bar and Wednesday’s eyes follow, unbidden. The sway of her hips beneath her tailored coat, the gleam of silver hair in neon light, the door marked ‘Restroom’ closing softly behind her.
Logic tells her to stay seated, it tells her to drink water, to go home, to bury herself in denial until this night dissolves (she stands anyway). The restroom is dim, cleaner than expected, its single-occupancy lock clicking shut as Wednesday steps inside. Weems turns at the sound, surprise flickering and then fading into something darker, heavier.
“Miss Addams,” she says, voice a low warning, though her hand lingers on the edge of the sink like she expected this. Wednesday advances slowly, each step measured, predatory. “You provoked me.” Weems’ lips part, a laugh just beneath the surface. “Did I?”
Wednesday stops close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body, close enough that every inhale tastes like perfume and gin. “Yes.”
For a suspended heartbeat, neither of them moves. Then Weems exhales, slow and sharp, her composure cracking at the edges. “You should leave.” Wednesday tilts her head, black eyes gleaming. “I never do what I should.”
The last thread snaps… Weems catches her wrist, pulling her flush against the sink in one fluid motion, her mouth descending to capture Wednesday’s with crushing heat (it is not gentle, it is not polite… it is hunger, sharp and desperate, all the restraint of the last week combusting in one kiss).
Wednesday gasps against her lips, startled by the ferocity, then answers with equal force biting and demanding, fingers tangling in silvery hair as though she can tear away every inch of composure. Weems lifts her easily, perching her on the cool marble counter, pressing between her knees. The kiss deepens and Wednesday’s hands roam with sudden recklessness, tugging at lapels, nails dragging down silk.
“God, Wednesday…” Weems’ voice breaks against her throat, breath hot, lips marking fire along pale skin. Wednesday shudders, the sound splintering her resolve, pulling a low moan from deep in her chest. “You talk too much.”
Weems laughs darkly, muffled against her collarbone, before silencing herself with another bruising kiss. The kiss is wildfire… Wednesday tastes gin, lipstick, the faint sharpness of Weems’ teeth as their mouths crash together with brutal intensity. There’s no pretense left, no restraint only the two of them unraveling in a single, reckless blaze.
Weems’ hands are everywhere: gripping her waist, sliding down over the curve of her hip, anchoring her against the cool marble counter. Wednesday fists her hands in pale hair, yanking hard enough to drag a sharp gasp from her throat. The sound makes her stomach clench, molten (it’s too much… it’s not enough).
Weems pulls back only an inch, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger. Her breath fans hot across Wednesday’s cheek as she murmurs, “You’re playing with fire.” Wednesday tilts her chin up, defiant even as her pulse hammers. “Then burn me.” The words ignite them both.
Weems kisses her again, deeper, rougher, pressing her back against the mirror until the glass fogs with their breath. The reckless hunger dominates (teeth clashing, nails scraping, clothes tugged and twisted in impatient hands). Weems hikes Wednesday’s skirt up with a growl of frustration, fingers biting into the bare skin of her thighs as she pulls her closer to the edge.
Wednesday gasps, heat lancing through her, nails digging crescents into the back of Weems’ neck. She bites her lip hard to suppress the sound that threatens to escape, only for Weems to catch her jaw in one elegant hand, forcing her eyes up. “Don’t hold back,” Weems whispers, voice molten steel. “I want to hear you.”
The command punches through her like a shockwave. Wednesday growls, low and feral, then drags her teeth down the pale column of Weems’ throat hard enough to leave marks. The moan it pulls is sin, pure and sharp. The urgency peaks (reckless hands sliding, impatient grinding, the bathroom echoing with broken sounds). For a moment it’s all frantic heat, the kind of sex that happens because two people cannot not do it anymore.
Then, suddenly, Weems slows. She grips Wednesday’s hips firmly, pinning her against the counter, pulling back just enough to study her with those devastating blue eyes. Her lips are red, her hair mussed, her control frayed and yet she still manages to look like a queen surveying her conquest. “You wanted this,” she murmurs, voice deliberate, teasing. “Admit it.”
Wednesday’s breath comes ragged, chest heaving, but her glare burns hot. “I don’t admit anything.” Weems’ smile is wicked, slow. “Then I’ll make you.” Her touch changes… less frantic, more torturous. Fingers trace slow paths along the inside of Wednesday’s thigh, not quite touching where she aches, each pass a deliberate torment. Her mouth follows, kisses drawn-out and devastating along jaw, throat, collarbone. Every movement is calculated, designed to break her apart piece by piece.
Wednesday grips the edge of the counter hard enough to whiten her knuckles, a low, frustrated sound rumbling in her chest. “Sadist.” “Only with you,” Weems purrs, her lips brushing against the corner of Wednesday’s mouth before pulling back again, infuriatingly out of reach. “You make it so easy.”
Wednesday snaps, grabbing her by the lapels and dragging her into another bruising kiss. “Then stop teasing,” she growls against her lips. Weems laughs softly (triumphant, hungry) before obliging, the torment shifting back into molten heat, teasing giving way to reckless passion all over again.
The bathroom fills with the sounds of them (gasps, moans, the scrape of marble, the sharp rhythm of two women finally colliding without restraint). Weems’ mouth is fire, consuming her whole, swallowing the last of her self-control. Wednesday clutches at her lapels like she might fall into nothingness without the anchor of silk and skin, pulling her closer until their bodies grind together with obscene friction.
Weems’ hands are merciless, gripping her thighs and spreading them wide against the counter, pressing between her legs until Wednesday gasps. The sound escapes before she can bite it back, rough and unrestrained, echoing in the tiled room. “Better,” Weems murmurs against her mouth, her voice ragged but edged with triumph. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Wednesday answers with her teeth, biting hard at her lower lip, tasting lipstick and blood. “You’re insufferable,” she hisses, though the words splinter into a gasp when Weems’ hand slips higher, brushing cruelly close but not close enough.
“You keep saying that,” Weems purrs, her lips trailing down her throat, leaving wet marks that will bloom dark by morning. “And yet here you are.” Wednesday claws at her back, dragging nails over fabric, desperate for more, furious at her own desperation. “I’ll kill you for this,” she growls, though her hips betray her, grinding against the thigh pressed between them.
Weems laughs low, dark and throaty, one hand sliding firmly beneath her skirt at last. “Then make it worth dying for.” The touch is devastating (fingers sliding over damp silk, pressing slow circles that drag a guttural sound from deep in Wednesday’s chest). Her head falls back against the mirror with a dull thud, lips parting around a moan she cannot contain.
Weems watches, hungry and intent, her own breath stuttering as she works her fingers with calculated precision. “There you are,” she murmurs, voice thick with desire. “So sharp everywhere else, but here… soft.” Wednesday jerks her head forward, capturing her lips again in a bruising kiss to shut her up. “You talk too much.”
“Mm,” Weems hums, deliberately sliding her fingers lower, stroking along the slick heat waiting for her. “You’ll thank me when you’re screaming.” Wednesday chokes on a gasp, nails digging into her shoulders hard enough to bruise. The rhythm of her hand is relentless now, fast and deliberate, dragging her closer and closer to the edge with ruthless efficiency.
“Say it,” Weems demands, her voice rough, low in her ear. “Say you wanted me.” Wednesday snarls, shaking her head even as her body arches into her hand. “Never.” Weems presses harder, fingers curling wickedly, the angle devastating. Her lips brush the shell of her ear, a whisper hot enough to scorch. “Liar.”
The word detonates inside her, shoving her over the brink. Wednesday breaks with a cry ripped from her throat, shuddering violently as pleasure crashes through her, waves pounding her to pieces against the bathroom counter. Weems holds her steady, working her through every trembling spasm until Wednesday collapses back against the mirror, breath ragged, skin flushed, black eyes wild.
For a long moment, silence hangs, heavy and broken only by the sound of their panting, then Wednesday lifts her head, gaze dark and defiant even through the haze. Her lips curl into the faintest, most dangerous smile. “Again.” Weems’ answering laugh is wrecked and hungry, her hands already sliding back into place. “Greedy girl.”